


PARTED EYE

by Grondfic



Category: Midsummer Night's Dream - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: Based on the version ofA Midsummer Night's Dreamthat played at The Bridge Theatre, London during summer 2019 (later streamed to cinemas by the National Theatre), this piece reverses the roles of Oberon and Titania. Further, both royals are overtly Duke Theseus and Queen Hippolyta visiting the forest in dreams.This piece begins at Bottom's 'translation' (and fills in a few scenes hinted-at by the Bard and the Bridge Director).All words initalicwere spoken in the play (some by Shakespeare; some …. maybe not!)
Relationships: Bottom/Fairies, Bottom/Oberon
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	1. A Wood Near Athens

**Author's Note:**

> The four principal actors were my main inspiration. 
> 
> They were Gwendoline Christie (Titania/Hippolyta), Oliver Chris (Oberon/Theseus), Hammed Animashaun (Bottom) and David Moorst (Puck/Philostrate). 
> 
> The film publicity is here, showing all four on a poster:
> 
> http://ntlive.nationaltheatre.org.uk/productions/ntlout35-a-midsummer-night-s-dream

1\. **The dove pursues the griffin:**

**Titania(Hippolyta):**

She controls the little western flower with confidence, like the bronze sword that (somewhere deep down) she’s aware she might wield rather as an extension of her limb than as a cold weapon. Here, in this magical space, the cupid-shotten blossom will serve her turn.  
The moon will be her friend too, this one last time. Well does she know that all her Amazonian powers will be ripped away with her maidenhood!

*Dian, thou here dischargest me,* she thinks sadly, *and the nights will hold only darkness and subjection.*

But now, in this enchanted forest, by a final grace of The Lady, she embodies Titania, Queen of the Folk. And here, the power belongs to her.

Puck (her Philostrate) has brought her with him from the palace; and will aid her endeavours. The purple blossom seems to throb like a beating heart against her fingers, endowing her with its wild and sensuous energy. She raises it over the sleeping face of her lord (here – Oberon; elsewhere Theseus of Athens, her conqueror), and feels all that palpitating energy gather intent, channelling fiercely into him. Like a wave, his torso rises gracefully to receive it, and drops back again.

_What thou see’st when thou doest wake, do it for thy true love take!_

The spell wraps him, sure and surely. Now all that is left is to wait, and beguile the time with a game of four errant Athenian lovers. Maybe they too will gain a measure of independent choice through this night’s work.

2\. **Lulled in these flowers** :

**Oberon(Theseus):**

In deep sleep, he sees a sound so melodious that it entices him from his nest of rich darkness. At first, he can taste only the commingled scents of rose, violet, faint primrose and oxlip; but all subtly changed – as if the intense flavour of the honeysuckle is furred with an effulgence of body-fluids.

The sound is so insistent that it clouds his customary keen vision; and so it is through a miasma that he beholds the singer. Blinking purple haze from his eyes, he reclaims sight, and looks again.

What angel wakes him from his flowery bed? (Not that his Kind has any truck with angels. They are decidedly spirits of another sort; being - as is well-known - completely genderless)

This one is clearly male - therefore no angel. Mortal, undoubtedly. The intimation of final dissolution, though yet far off, nonetheless lies always beneath the tangle of humanity as the creature moves and breathes. The inevitability of it excites his own immortality. His loins are throbbing with it.

Mortal, then; but not quite human; parts of a brute-beast bolted on somehow (Puck’s work?) The combination is irresistible; and he gives tongue, the better to conceive the tumult in his body.

_I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:  
Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note;  
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;_

The creature bridles; false-modesty warring with an almost-incredulous flattered-ness. But beneath that, lurks a thrilled vulnerability; a fear of being mocked.

That endearing uncertainty within the mortal engulfs him wholly. The exquisite fragility of it all pulls him in - dares him almost – to try these perilous human emotions for himself. He swallows, and completes his speech.

_And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me  
On the first view to say, to swear, I LOVE THEE._

Now, relishing the way each word defines and releases another new cascade of fancy, he realises (in delicious agony) that he’s feeling it, and meaning it, in all sincerity.

**Bottom:**

The wind is brushing busily around his ears, so he hears Quince’s words through the susurration.

_Bless thee Bottom, bless thee! Thou art TRANSLATED!_

Then she and the others - his close colleagues and friends - flee shrieking.

He emits a bray of hurt distress. A taste like purple bruising rises at the back of his throat. What has he done to earn this sudden distaste? Or is this their cruel idea to frighten him?

He admits, sometimes, to being mistily aware that the others find him a bit ... excessive. He recognises clues in the minuscule tightening of a muscle beside Quince’s mouth; the tilt of Flute’s head; the audible sigh occasionally heaved by Snug.

Perhaps he should try not to give voice quite so readily to all the thoughts that jostle in his brain? Conscientiously, he closes his mouth as a surprising thought immediately manifests itself – he can see the breeze!

It looks just as the paintings present it – a plump child similar to Cupid, but with cheeks distended like an oboe-player. It’s blowing industriously into his ears.

And now .. yes! ... the strange zephyr-sound modulates into music. He knows that tune; and some of the words that go with it. He’ll sing along, and prove to the world that nothing – NOTHING – can faze Bottom the Weaver.

_The ousel-cock_ tee-tum tee tum  
Tee-tum tee tumpty _bill!  
The throstle with_ tee-tum tee-tum  
_The wren with little quill_

The gathering birds sing merrily as he names each one – the ousel and the rest. And here – finally - is the wren, his favourite amongst them all.

Look – it’s using its little quill to write a message on a birch-leaf. Maybe it’s for him – an order, perhaps, for weaving all the down from its feathers into ... into ... diapers for the chicks!

But it’s not. His brain processes, and slowly comprehends the minuscule script:

_ What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? _

The words are sounding louder now; echoing through his ears, and buzzing in the bones of his skull like druid-harps and timpani.

_** WHAT ANGEL WAKES ME FROM MY FLOWERY BED? ** _

By now, the message is washing over him in waves of sound. He peers around, bewildered; feels his ears shifting and finally tilts his head so that vision re-directs upwards.

At first he can make out only the shape of a stout branch above him, lit by two immensely bright stars that seem to hover above, shining through the dark mass of leaves.

Then the world lurches, and he is mistaken in every way!

Right over his head hangs a massive, opulent, blossom-bedecked bed that sways lightly, curtains gently flapping courtesy of the exertions of his little zephyr. The breeze parts them; and the stars are revealed – two eyes of transcendent blue, aimed unwaveringly in his direction. His dark skin burns beneath their scrutiny.

As he stands transfixed beneath this all-encompassing attention, the bed begins slowly to descend; and a warm, pleasing baritone voice addresses him -

_I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:  
Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note;  
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;  
And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me ... _

What IS this? Enthralled! Fair virtue! It’s a bit embarrassing, to be honest. He wriggles a bit, and makes sounds of demurral.

..... _On the first view to say, to swear, I LOVE THEE._ concludes the owner of the voice in a crescendo of agonised longing.

The bed lands, and Bottom stares at its occupant. He’s clocked the regal night-apparel - a beautiful weave of figured gold satin - before the nature of the declaration strikes home.

Completely gobsmacked, he embarks upon a rambling response, very little to the point, which sounds inane even to his own sensitised ears.

And back comes the precise reply – ****

_Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful._

Eek! Surely the guy is joking. This might (secretly) be music to Bottom’s extended ears, but nonetheless, perhaps it’s time to be elsewhere. He therefore replies with a modest dissent, coupled with a gentle hint to be shown the way home; and gets more than he bargained for.

_Out of this wood do not desire to go! Thou shalt remain here, whether thou will or no!_ thunders his would-be suitor.

Bottom has no time to wonder if all the high claims to status, that the stranger is now making, can be relied on. The torrent of praise, renewed vows of love and offers of an opulent life, plus the immediate attentions of the lord’s Folk, are re-scrambling his brain. Best, therefore, to just go with the flow. Obligingly, he nods and climbs on board.

There’s a timeless time when his new friend enacts a full, salacious cabaret routine of desire around him on the bed. Leaning back against one of the posts, he watches - aroused and tolerantly amused at the same time. The combination fills his head with giddy bubbles that burst into swarms of tiny scintillants; and now he brays his renewed willingness; joining the mad dance with enthusiasm.

_Tie up my love’s tongue,”_ orders the lord, _“Bring him silently!_

The bed moves. It glides through gathered crowds of celebrants like a swan. Around and around the glade it travels, its followers (the lord’s Folk, and a cloudy swathe of semi-visible Others) trailing away into a velvet distance.

A corner is turned; the audience disperses into mist, and the myriad crowd-sounds fade. Even the wind-voice dies. They are indeed brought silently, alone, together.

3\. **A Very Paramour:**

**Oberon(Theseus):**

His mortal is aroused now! He can see it on the breeze, comprehend the urgency in the noises the man-ass is making; and (having, with a whisk of magic, removed their remaining clothes) taste it with his own eyes.

Being an obvious manifestation of the mortal’s Assininity, the ears fascinate him most. He makes a beeline for them, caressing both their hairy lengths with his hands; relishing the way they twitch and flutter against his fingers. The man-ass appears to enjoy it too; judging by the heavenly music emanating from his vocal chords.

He’s known what he wants from the man-ass and indeed, has signalled as much in the courtship dance that they improvised together. Now, he must ensure that his inamorato is in peak condition to deliver the goods – as often as will please him!

The mortal is manifesting desperation, just from the ears alone. The mischief of the Folk enters him. He leans forward, pulls the man-ass’s head towards him, and runs the tip of his tongue along the entire length of one monstrous ear, nibbling delicately at the tip when he arrives there.

The free ear flaps wildly; and the mortal’s constant celestial sound rises in volume until his own head is ringing with it. Delicious!  
He’s about to repeat the process with the other ear when he’s seized and engulfed in a pair of brawny arms. This is semi-expected and he succumbs instantly, reflecting woozily as they both fall, that this is what he’s been aiming for all along. Love – decides his throbbing heart, his scrambled head and the pit of his yearning guts – is clearly all about the ultimate relinquishment of control to the Beloved.

**Bottom**

It’s like the little breeze, but magnified a thousand times. The lord’s clever fingers play upon his ear as an expert harpist would do. Each hair responds individually, just as the sensitive strings would do – rippling to make sweet music.  
But, on an instant, even as he writhes, he finds himself in a bubble of absolute silence. He cannot even hear his own cries. He understands that his ears – here – are to serve another purpose. However, he still sees his breeze, which is convulsed with malicious laughter at his exquisite plight.

This stings a little in the midst of the hushed euphoric chaos. It’s time, he thinks, to cut to the chase, and grab a modicum of control. Flipping both ears back out of reach, he barrels forward, grabbing precipitately. The move tumbles them onto the mattress (which is also a bank of flowers). Then, pulling at the lord’s waist, Bottom reels him in until their torsos are touching at all possible points.

The lord trembles in his arms, yearning towards completion yet somehow holding back. Delightful!

The act of moving his ears appears to have restored a soundtrack - the lord’s panting breath close to his face; the breeze’s thin laughter; and the fainter susurration of the forest at his back. Going with the flow is again an option; but now it’s his flow, and the wood’s, rather than the lord’s. Even more delightful!

Experimentally, he presses his lips against the lord’s half-open mouth, deepening the kiss as the lord gasps, again moving urgently against him.

Encouraged, he begins to plant kisses along the lord’s jaw, down the stretched column of his throat, and beyond. As he progresses southwards, his furred ears trail slowly down, across the lord’s shoulders, chest and upper belly. The cries become frantic. Time to break the meniscus of tension, and let things spill!

All it takes is a gentle pressure of the tongue. A mouthful, a swallow, a climax of explosive sound; and it’s done.

“Fuck me! Immediately!” announces the lord, barely pausing for breath.

Really??

Oh - really!!

Bottom rears up over the languid, supine body and leans forward straight-armed. Placing his hands on either side of the lord’s head, he speaks with calm deliberation.

“I could do that,” he tells the lord, “but ...

He moves suddenly, catching the lord by the shoulders and hauling him up.

“.... YOU are going to do all the work!” he tells him implacably.

“Why so?” the lord is inclined to bristle.

“Because, lord, you clearly know much more than I do.”

“All is new? Oh, sweet! Very well then. Men say one’s first will long in memory be held – and fondly – when all others are forgot,” declares the lord graciously.

Well, if that’s what the lord thinks ... fine! Realising suddenly that his senses are no longer quite so scrambled, Bottom settles down (as the lord places him tenderly, flat on the bed) to enjoy the attention without falling for the shtick.

He’s been hard, seems like forever; but he contrives to hold on even so. The lord will want his insane, fantasy-imbued, lovesick payoff; which will, of course, take time, since he’s come once already.

So, as the lord sinks slowly over him, taking him in with such ease that Bottom suspects another bit of magic, the weaver starts a long calculation of the time it would take to finish seven ells of fustian, severing the nap along the looped weft by hand, as the lengths of cloth slowly build up beyond the loom.

The lord surprises him, lost in calculation as he is, by coming explosively once more, with squeals of astonishment and ecstasy.  
“Oh wonderful, most wonderful! And how wondrous art thou, my gentle joy! And now we must bathe; and drink champagne. I shall arrange it forthwith. Where are my people?”

And with that the lord disengages, leaps sprightly to his feet and disappears. Bottom stares after him in blank disbelief.  
Then true anger takes him, for almost the first time in his life. He’s shaking with it.

Love! What kind of ‘lover’ leaves a man in this state? Now he’s off the boil, and must do everything for himself! Back to the trusty right-hand-job – an area in which he can indeed claim some expertise.

He sinks back prone into the bed; and finds himself surrounded by scented blooms. It’s rather nice; as is the soft breeze returning to caress his ears.

The sharp anger abates to just a tiny fiery point in the pit of his stomach. It’s a good enough place to start from ....

... perhaps if he were to turn over ..... really this ground is so smooth and friction-free that he hardly needs the attentions of his own hand .... it’s like gliding silk, with perhaps a bracing touch of furry velour-nap to keep things brisk. He plunges downwards, is somehow enclosed by the gentle earth; and feels – at last - the gathering thrust of imminent ecstasy. When it engulfs him, the intensity is blinding.

Cradled afterwards in flowery content, he ponders the nature of love. Maybe the lord is right; and it consists of a lot of fancy-talk and absolute entitlement. Well – if so, at least he’s absolved of any obligations. He’ll be free, therefore, to indulge in some flirting with the lord’s fascinating little attendants! That’ll larn him!

4\. **Aurora’s Harbinger**

**Titania(Hippolyta):**

She withdraws silently from her invisibility, preparatory to deploying the antidote. Much has become apparent from her silent observations; knowledge that can be utilised both here-and-now, and later, awakened in Athens.

The beast-man has acquitted itself rather well, given the circumstances. Titania has appreciated the way it conducted itself with the Lesser Folk, with the breeze, and, above all, with the forest. She can learn a little from it too, in the way it managed her lord’s madness.

But now the time is right to disentangle Oberon, and find out whether he’s learned any lessons from his involuntary experiences.

_Dian’s bud o’er Venus’ flower ..... wake you, my sweet king_

Once again, his torso rises up. A pretty consort indeed! Maybe now, with her deepened knowledge of him, there might be a sliver – a crescent-moon’s-worth – of hope for them both!

**Oberon(Theseus):**

He wakes, this time, with a start; and a waft of clean-cold air like melt-water in early spring. The waxing-moon, just down-turned from the highest pinnacle of heaven, burns his skin to pale gold, and silvers the petals of the flower that floats before his heavy eyes. The bloom fascinates him .... _Dian’s bud ..._

Dian – the Moon! How has he slept and missed Her Rising?

He starts up, following the trajectory of the flower; and encounters the cool amused gaze of a pair of fine eyes. His Queen.  
_See as thou wast wont to see...._

He’s clearly lost the battle of wills over the child. He has some confused memory of this; but the vivid hallucination he’s woken from still occupies his mind entirely.

Ridiculous! He must share this with Titania immediately, so that they can mock it together, and he can forget the wriggling discomfort of his dream-memories.

_.. what visions have I seen; Methought I was enamour’d of an ass!_

She gives him her most wicked grin and indicates behind him on the bed –

_There lies your love!_

He turns and stares. So it was all true! The excesses and ecstasies. The Ears. The bubble-bath and the champagne. The searing, impotent jealousy. What had possessed him?

A lovespell ......

Her ruse slowly dawns on him. He can’t remember the actual spellcast; but it’s pretty certain that Goodfellow would have had a hand in it. And here indeed is the Puck, swinging on the bedpost. With that trickster in Her train, there’s no way he could win.

She’s just magnificent!

He looks back again at his unexpected inamorato and, one last time, feels the man’s heart beating out, light and slow, the doomed rhythm of mortality. Even his changeling-child – not truly ever his own – will pass with the ever-flowing seasons.

But She - his Queen who experiences him like a second self – remains. His Lodestar and True North.

So what is there left to do but take one last rueful look at the sleeping man-ass; meet Her dancing eyes over the flowery bed and its burden; and let loose (the both of them) all the suppressed laughter that has been building and bubbling ever since She woke him?

**Bottom:**

The departing moon spares one last beam which, like Cupid’s arrow, pierces him square in the eyes. He wakes in panic, heart thumping, with a high shout that drops an octave ( _’Heee-HAW!’_ ) as he slowly remembers where he is....

... and – for a lightning instant – exactly what he’s been doing!

But the diurnal tragedy (or relief) that overtakes all dreamers befalls him; and the whirl of mad imagery trickles away like bright water. Chunks and shards of the mundane push it further and further away, inwards, until his name floats back to him, and then function surfaces.

_Bottom’s Dream!_ Yes, a good name for an epic. Mistress Quince could make something of that. Bottom’s Dream, _because it hath no .... no ...bottom!_. Quince really has talent in that line of work. Our play is .... is ......

The play! The Duke! Athens!

Forgetting all else, he quits the grove and is soon galloping down the broad track to the city gates.

**Attendant Folk:**

Languidly swinging from branches light as silk trapezes, they watch as various mortals fade out into wakefulness at a leaping Midsummer dawn. It’s been a busy Moon-time, and they have accomplished much. Soon, they will curl tight into oxlip clusters, fragrant petals of violet, or hearts of eglantine to sleep the day away.

But first, a wordless debate ensues.

*So! Are we agreed? Fair Dian makes request on Hippolyta’s behalf that she be allowed the Freedom of the Forest as a parting gift. T’were best we oblige the Moon and thus confirm the Amazon as our Titania.*

*Agreed, Peaseblossom. A worthy queen for my part – in dreams or out of them!*

* _... and I …*  
*... and I...*  
*... and I...*_  


*As to the Athenian Duke, his time with us as our Oberon was well-spent sure and surely, but ... *

*But t’was not he who waked the forest.*

*T’was not; and yet the forest WAS woke!*

*So – take we the other, who did the waking?*

*Hah! Well for you Mustard-Seed! T’was you the ass-head favoured – most bravely and obscenely!*

*And? He spoke somewhat in that manner to us all.*

*He did! And hath the favour of the forest withal. Therefore let him who sees the breeze wear the crown of horn. The Puck must contrive it!*

*Agreed, comrades. Now sleep we the day to sunset, and await the next Moon-waxing... *


	2. When Every Thing Seems Double

1\. **Rude Mechanicals**

**Hippolyta(Titania):**

So – wedded. One last intimate rite to complete; and she will no longer be an Amazon. Hope and power both now lie only in the forest. For the present, it’s enough – the dream-promise is there, beneath all that she and he have done this day.

Court-procedure is tedious. The ceremonies and feasting have been duly undertaken; but now the Duke is talking about some form of entertainment to _wear away this long age of three hours_. Why – for Venus’ sake – can they not just retire to bed, if that’s what he wants?

*He likes to defer pleasure for as long as possible. Remember?*

Acknowledging this truth from her inner self, she returns to the current situation.

At least the stifling uniforms and hair-coverings have been banished tonight. She herself took that decision – to wear no veil - and he seems hardly to have noticed the omission. The two other brides have been quick to follow suit. They have, she thinks, the makings of strong and resolute women. She will keep them by her; and maybe they will prove willing accomplices in effecting the changes she needs to make in Athens.

But now is the time to be gracious; to acquiesce in this farcical competition that her husband insists is the best way to choose the evening’s entertainment.

There are a number of contestants – all equally dreary. She’s hardly surprised that the Duke gives them short shrift until the final act – a group of amateur thespians – makes its appearance.

Oho! He’ll pick this one, sure and surely.

Theseus has so far shown no overt sign of remembering their time reigning and fighting in the forest; but there’s no doubt that the dream-experience has changed him. And now – here in the very ducal palace – stands the unwitting catalyst of her lovespell, surrounded by his fellow hopefuls.

She glances briefly towards Philostrate, standing attentively at his lord’s side. The functionary promptly bursts into a torrent of reasons why the play proposed by the Mechanicals (as they call themselves) would be most unsuitable as a post-wedding entertainment.

So, naturally, the Duke gets a case of the stubborns, and insists he will see the play. As Hippolyta silently applauds Philostrate’s technique, a somewhat raucous and post-prandial audience settles down to enjoy (each one in their own way) the play....

.... which becomes more and more ridiculous as the ‘tragedy’ unfolds. Lysander and Demetrius make asses of themselves with their unfunny comments, some of which – to the Mechanical playing Moon – verge on bullying. Hippolyta wonders how long it will take for Hermia and Helena to tire of their callow spouses, and start remembering their ancient friendship with one another.

In the meantime, the doughty woman playing Lion almost starts a fight with her fellows, everyone mis-pronounces ‘Ninus’, and Pyramus takes a full ten minutes to over-act his death-scene. Maybe his lady, now entering to discover her lover’s corpse, will perish more briefly!

‘ _Oh sisters three, come, come to me!_ ’ cries Thisbe, and suddenly they are all four on the stage – herself, Hermia, Helena and the actor. They are to enact the Fates!

Thisbe gathers them around the body of Pyramus and invites them to wash their hands in the blood of the self-slain hero. It’s invisible, pretend-blood of course, in this simplistic play; but ... it’s a covenant of sorts, nonetheless.

Three strong women, and a man-woman who is also an artisan – the makings here of a sabbat.

She must take an interest in these workpeople who, in spite of their unsubtle dramatics, are probably all experts in some field or other. Do they have trade-consortia (other than this loose, off-duty theatre company)? Would they perhaps, be grateful for her patronage?

This place – this Athens – is to be her home now. These folk are her folk; and she is still, after all, a Queen, trained to the uses of royalty.

Tonight is for the sealing of bonds. But, from tomorrow, there will be work to do!

**Theseus(Oberon):**

This should be the day that crowns his triumph; the day he’s been anticipating ever since the end of the war. He’s been victorious in the battle, and in addition appears (almost inexplicably) to have won the favour – maybe even the love – of his captured Amazon Queen.  
But somehow, he’s not feeling it as he thought he would. He seems to experience everything through a soft misty eiderdown. It’s a cocoon of such snugness, that all he wants to do is lie back and be cosseted into drowsy voluptuousness.

It’s almost as if he’s had his wedding night already, and is now basking in remembered bliss. Except that he can’t remember it, because it hasn’t happened yet.

He’s intermittently aware that he’s behaving like an idiot, and making inane comments. The play isn’t helping. All the workpeople are doing their best, of course, but the effect is crass, overblown and at times downright terrible.

With shocking suddenness, the Lion makes its entrance; and his interest is instantly piqued. Another human-beast hybrid - how they haunt his dreams and wakings!

It had started with the Minotaur, of course; that thrilling stalk into the dark Unknown, sword clutched tightly in one hand; and in the other, the life-essential, fragile thread spooling away behind him. And then (once he had attained the heart of the Labyrinth) – the terror and glamour of that silhouette, sharp as jet in the lamplight; the sub-humanity and yet supra-naturality of his bestial, demi-deific antagonist. The fight had been dreamlike, fervent; and after the killing-stroke he had experienced in the midst of all his hero-strivings, a rare sense of completion as it lay dying at his feet.

He turns his belated attention back to the play, and is flabbergasted to discover that the ‘lion’ is actually a strapping wench wearing hairy headgear.

 _’Oh’_ , he exclaims in some disappointment, _’It’s a hat?’_

**The Players:**

As they engage the court with their bergomask, they are all in a state of high exaltation. They’ve clearly been a raging success; and even Starveling – inclined at first to sulking after the near-fight with Snug – is happy now.

They dance with all comers, court and defeated performers alike with no let or stay; until – inexplicably – the Amazon Queen gently intervenes as her new husband comes face-to-face with Bottom.

Overstated possessiveness; thinks Mistress Quince; watching the almost mutual recoil of both men. Still – her leading man’s charisma is undeniable. Tonight, she feels it herself; even though she can’t approve of his protracted death-throes. Later, she promises herself, she’ll draw him aside, and make her mild displeasure known. Maybe Bottom will think of some suitable way of repenting ... dinner for two at the Weavers’ Arms, perhaps ....

Flute is dizzy with Thisbe’s death-speech, the applause and the dancing. But most of all he’s bewitched by the double-act that he and his ‘Pyramus’ have achieved this night. There was a connection – no doubt about it. And now ... it’s all over. Back to bellows-mending (with no delicious distractions) tomorrow. Maybe if he contrives to drop by Bottom’s house around lunchtime, they could grab some lunch and relive their mutual triumphs ....

Snug, rather gruffly making peace overtures to Snout after the near-fight during the play, discovers that, really, the tinker is rather sweet .....

Starveling spends the whole evening by the buffet .....

Bottom’s just coasting. All’s right with the world; although he can’t quite remember why....

**Conclusion**

The evening ends with a rather pompous speech from the Duke, He concedes that no-one needs to make an early appearance in the morning, but also announces that the wedding celebrations will continue in the palace. Lockdown for a further two weeks, then; thinks Philostrate as he goes resignedly to fetch his broom to sweep the dust behind the door.


	3. ‘ACT VI’ – A Continuation (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One month after the events of Act V …...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bridge’s programme notes contain an essay which speculates at some length on what might happen in ‘Act VI’ (ie. Immediately after the play finishes). Since its production undoubtedly contrives to introduce a few implied ‘loose ends’ to Shakespeare’s plotline; and leave them hanging at the close, I thought it only right to address one of two of them.

**Spirits of another sort**

One month away from Midsummer and the year is slowly turning, in a haze of golden sixpences.

For indeed, only a few days after the Mechanicals’ performance at the ducal palace, Bottom was summoned there again, and informed by a highly supercilious young functionary that the Duke, in his beneficence, had awarded him sixpence a day – for life, mind you – in recognition of his magnificent Pyramus. But – the functionary had given him to understand – for administrative efficiency, he should collect a sum of 42 pence weekly from the ducal Fiduciary Office situated in a nondescript side-street on the edge of the palace estate. He himself – Philostrate – would be dispensing it.

This unexpected windfall has changed things for the weaver. He’s acquired a small-frame table-loom for closer, more refined, and yet simpler work. And he’s now able to approach the more exclusive members of the Spinners’ Guild to bargain for their costlier threads – mulberry-grub silk, light as a cobweb; fine linen- and cambric-flaxes – to be woven into swathes of the stuff of his hectic hallucinations! Soon, after some cautious experimentation, he might look to extending his clientele – maybe even as far as the Ducal Palace itself.

But now, as the moon begins to wax again, Bottom finds himself becoming restive, in spite of all his new activities. Time and again, images of that glade in the forest by the Duke’s Oak fill his dreams and even intrude on his busy waking hours.

So, as the sun sets, he abandons unfinished the twenty ells of coarse grey calico destined for Dian’s vestal-house (with its associated laundry for fallen women), and sets off through the gates, once more into the wild.

It’s quiet under the trees. Arriving with the rest of The Mechanicals last month (joshing, and creating their own noisy atmosphere) he hadn’t noticed this. The massive oak that up-rears before him dominates his senses; and he gazes into its depths expectantly, awaiting some unspecified revelation. 

“Nice evening!”

Bottom jumps, and turns quickly. His jaw drops.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just taking the air – same as you, I expect,” replies Philostrate, “Town gets very stuffy after a fortnight’s compulsory celebration – don’t you think?” 

Bottom gazes at him in some surprise. The normally-immaculate young functionary is now resplendent in a loose vest that reveals his artistically inked upper arms; and a colourfully patched old pair of jeans. His feet are bare.

“You’re looking very Street!”

“Nah, mate. This is my Woods-look,” responds Philostrate.

“You wear that getup just for a moonlight stroll?” queries Bottom, adding idly – “Do you come here often?”

“Heh! That’s a well-old chat-up line you have there, weaver!” ripostes Philostrate instantly.

Bottom blushes.

“It’s not .... I didn’t mean it like THAT!”

“Tough! – ‘cos that’s how I choose to take it!”

“Not that I’m unworthy of it, but everyone seems to want a piece of me these days,” says Bottom (not without a modicum of pride), “There’s Flute – he’s being quite blatant after the play. But when it comes to Mistress Quince too ... WELL!”

“Last month,” says Philostrate (rather at random), “When you were here before ... “

“IN this very grove, BY this very oak, rehearsing for the Duke’s wedding!”

“Yes, well. You probably won’t remember it all, but you slept with someone rather important!”

“I DID?? I NEVER ..... surely ... I don’t remem ... “

But somewhere deep within his psyche, the outrageous announcement seems ... genuine, and known. And truthful.

“So – “ Philostrate is continuing obliviously, “It’s only natural that some of the charisma will have washed off on you!”

“Charisma?”

“Our Kings usually have it in spadefuls. Queens too, of course; but that’s different. They all come here in their dreams; and we .. accommodate them. We get all sorts. Mortals of all kinds – emperors, dukes, merchants, peasants – we serve them and their fantasies.”

“Wait a minute ... did you say DUKES amongst that list? PLEASE tell me it wasn’t him?”

“Sorry – can’t tell you that. Our kind NEVER lies to humans.”

Bottom collapses slowly against the tree trunk, sliding downwards until he’s sitting at its foot, head in hands.

“Wish I hadn’t asked!” 

“Don’t despair – he probably has no idea. Just thinks you’re the sweetest Pyramus he ever saw – they say Love is blind, don’t they?”

Bottom raises his head to eye him shrewdly.

“I prognosticate that your allegiance isn’t ONLY to Athens?”

“Insofar as I AM Philostrate, I am the Duke’s loyal Master of Revels. But – call me Robin Goodfellow – and I’m free in this wondrous Wood, and one of its Folk.”

Bottom cocks an eyebrow.

“The guy who goes round disguised as an apple or a three-legged stool? Honoured, I’m sure.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, weaver. But yes, I’m a shapeshifter. I can shapeshift myself; and others if the mood takes me.”

“A threat?”

“No need, it’s too late! I did you last month.”

Bottom rubs the lobe of one ear in puzzlement.

“I really REALLY don’t remember that!”

“Not even the breeze around those ears of yours?”

Breeze? Ousel-cock ..... what angel .... ? And (heard in a dream-of-a-dream) _Methought I was enamour’d of an ..._

“You BASTARD!”

“Probably; although the term is not really applicable to my Kind. But tell me – wasn’t it, overall, a good experience? Hasn’t it woke you to new possibilities? They say your trade is booming now, and I foretell that your new ‘delicacies’ range will be very well-received!”

“How do you know ....? - of course you do! When the Palace Information System falls short, the three-legged stool fills the gap, eh?”

“Or a golden sixpence piece, yes.”

“Have I spent you yet?”

Robin comes up close on all fours, so that Bottom can see the slight points to the ears; the pupils of the eyes slotted like those of an ungulate.

“Much better chat-up line! So – fancy another go at it?”

“At what, exactly?” asks Bottom warily.

“Oh the whole thing! The animal bit. The scrambled senses. The absolute attention aimed solely at you. The pampering. The hot sex ... “

“I’m not so keen on the animal bit,” admits Bottom, “And the absolute attention gets a bit wearing afterwards – I remember that now.” ( _Babe, Babe, Babe! Not now. I’ve got a headache!_ *)

“Not OUR fault that the mortal was self-centred and needy!” protests Robin immediately, “Anyway, he’s not your problem now. The Queen will deal with him quite adequately – with my help. You were by way of a ... well, never mind. This time will be different.”

“No animal bit?” asks Bottom hopefully.

“Erm ... IMPROVED animal bit? I admit I made a mistake with you before. The donkey was a snap judgement. We can raise the bar quite high this time.”

“Lion!” says Bottom promptly.

Robin shakes his head sadly.

“Weaver, there’s bits of yourself you don’t know at all. Lion indeed! Lion is fit only for a bruiser like Snug (who did a great job, by the way. The Duke is still gobsmacked about the hat). You need to think Woods now. King of the Forest!”

“Wolf?” guesses Bottom hopefully.

Robin tuts again, reaching behind the huge tree-trunk.

“Here! A full set – the moon-after-midsummer marks their growth to full maturity. Twelve tines; the full crown of horn – you can’t get any better than that.”

“Stag,” says Bottom, disappointed, “Not much further up the scale from the donkey then.”

“Rubbish! You just try them and see. I nicked them specially – from a different play altogether!**"

Bottom frowns, unsure what that means. However, the perfectly-matched wide-branching antlers are very handsome. They’d look good on the palace wall, if only the head and pelt weren’t also attached. But, of course, you’d need the snout and ears for tasting the wind and comprehending the life in the woods. The whole antler-spread would increase overall height considerably. You’d need to be aware of low-hanging branches and high-climbing undergrowth....

He’s reached and touched them before he even realises what he’s done. 

“Nice, aren’t they? Suit you down to the ground.”

Bottom takes his hands reluctantly from the coarse hair at the base of each antler, and regards the entity before him thoughtfully.

“What’s the catch, Robin Goodfellow?”

“Us Folk never get any appreciation for our kindnesses!” pouts Robin, giving his best impression of injured innocence.

“Given that you’re a byword for trickery, and that your idea of a funny joke is to turn into a stool so that you can land some poor old woman on the floor, I’m not convinced. So give – and don’t try to trick me with your weaselly version of Truth!”

“Quite the logician now, aren’t we? OK, here’s the deal. We’d like you to come here on every full-moon. Dark half of the year – Stag King. Light half – something else, Tree-singer*** most likely. That way you get a feel for the plant-life as well as the movable denizens of this wood.

“For how long – seven years, and then I’m hunted to death by red hounds?”

“A year of thirteen moons. Initially.”

“In real-time? Not that thing where you think you’ve been there for just one evening and it turns out to be hundreds of years in human time.”

“You know far too much about the Folk,” says Robin, nettled, “One year in human-time leading our (non-royal) moonlight revels, with total ... well, relative ... safety guaranteed. And no hounds.”

Bottom reaches for the headpiece once more, caressing the ears this time. Maybe he’ll see that little breeze again. And maybe the hot sex will come freely and easily, without any accompanying selfish histrionics. He grins suddenly and surges to his feet, lifting the antlers high above his head.

“Alright! It’s a bargain!” he cries, and jams the headpiece down onto his own forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Yes, these words were really spoken in the play. Pretty damn cool coming from Bottom to Oberon!
> 
> **That would be _Merry Wives of Windsor_ of course.
> 
> ***Tree-singer. Hammed Animashaun is to play Loial in the _Wheel of time_ series which will at some point be produced by Amazon Prime.


End file.
